


Surveillance

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Accountant (2016)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 15:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15464085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Chris likes to watch.





	Surveillance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



Some might say his brother likes to watch, but Braxton knows better. He knows that's only how it seems until you look a little deeper. He doesn't _like_ to. It's just hard for him to take the next step. 

Honestly, Brax was always fine with that, before. He was fine with it for years, since one hot summer in Thailand or maybe it was Laos, back when he was something like fifteen years old. He remembers getting head from one of the local teens their dad had told them to stay the fuck away from, a guy whose name he can't remember and if he's frank, that's been kind of a running theme since then. He was getting head in the alley that ran behind their shitty rented house and it was so hot even then, an hour after dark, that at first he thought the sweat stinging in his eyes was making him see things. 

Fact was, though: his big brother was watching, from around the corner of the fence at the end of the alley, his eyes like fucking saucers. And Braxton just closed his own eyes, rested his head back, and let him watch. With his eyes closed, he could almost have pretended it was him, not the older teen with the name he maybe never even knew to begin with. He knew he shouldn't've thought that, but hell, shoulda woulda coulda. As far as Brax was concerned, it was maybe the least fucked up thing about their family life, and it wasn't like anyone would know.

He thought maybe Chris would go tell dad what he'd been doing after that, but he didn't. Chris didn't mention it at all, not that he really ever said too much, and Braxton wasn't sure if he was pissed or grateful except he tried real hard to put it out of his mind as they moved around, as they trained. 

He caught him again a couple of years later, when he'd just headed up to West Point. No one really seemed to know that he had a brother there, 'cause Chris kept ducking away every time Brax tried to talk to him, classes to get to, bullshit about how plebes weren't meant to mix with upperclassmen like that made any fucking sense. But he caught him watching one night when he was sucking cock behind the library, and Jesus Christ he closed his eyes and gave that guy whose name he can't remember the blow job of his life. When he spat a mouthful of semen into the flowerbed when they were done, Chris was still there, wide-eyed.

Six weeks later, he caught him again, watching while he made out with a guy in the locker room when they got back in from a long-ass class hike. A month after that, he caught him again, watching him jack a guy off in the showers after they were done with football practice. The next time was a few weeks after that, then a few weeks after that, a few weeks after that, till pretty much all Brax could think about at any given moment was Chris's eyes on him and how that made him feel like he still had something to give him, now Chris didn't need his help to fight his battles. He could give him the sex he really clearly wasn't having, at least, and so what if that wasn't altruism all the way? 

But then Chris graduated and fucked off into PSYOPS just like their dad and there Brax was, alone again. At the time, he thought that was it, the whole thing was over. At the time, he persuaded himself that was for the best. And maybe it was, who the fuck knows, but once Brax graduated, too, once he'd been commissioned second lieutenant, it happened again. He was balls deep in a guy he'd picked up in a bar, fucking him bent over the hood of his rental car in a dark corner of a mostly empty parking lot way the way past midnight, and he knew Chris was watching. He caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, and he clamped one hand down over his own goddamn mouth th keep from groaning. Chris watched him fuck that guy, his hips bucking like a fucking jackhammer, and Jesus, Jesus Christ, he could see Chris leaning there against the wall with his uniform pants shoved down around his knees, his jacket and shirt tucked up underneath his arms out of the way, his cock in hand. When Chris came, come spattering against the tarmac, Brax came, too, in a condom from a men's room vending machine inside some nameless guy's ass. When he looked up, Chris was gone. Forty seconds and a shrugging apology later, so was he.

It was like that till ten years ago, on and off: every few months, between deployments, while Chris was still over in PSYOPS and Brax made it into the Rangers and got stationed down at Benning, there'd be a moment when he knew that he was being watched. Sometimes he'd leave the curtains open while there was some guy dancing on his dick or he'd bang a guy in a men's room while he was pretty sure Chris was jacking off in the next stall, and, once upon a time, when he knew that Chris was tailing him, he picked up the biggest, most ripped fucking carbon copy of his brother he could find and let him fuck him over the pulled-down tailgate of his truck. 

Chris stared at them the whole time from his shitty hiding place nearby, fapping like a goddamn pro, and when the guy noticed, when he muttered, "What the fuck?" and started to pull back, Brax turned and caught him by the shoulders. 

"Let him watch," he said, one hand going down to toy with the rigid ring at the base of the condom by the base of the guy's cock. "Christ, let him watch, it's hot as hell." Then he turned away again. He pulled off his shirt and shoved his jeans right down to his calves, almost naked right there in the parking lot, and he bent down low with his hard, leaking cock brushing against the goddamn tailgate. The guy pushed back into him, one hand between his shoulder blades. The guy fucked him. He made the damn truck rock. And all Brax could think was maybe Chris was shocked, watching him like that, or maybe Chris was jerking off as he tried to extrapolate how Brax's ass around his cock would feel. He came imagining his brother, not some guy who kinda sorta maybe looked like him. 

It wasn't too long after that that Chris was gone. _Gone_ , not just from the parking lot but everywhere, and Braxton looked but he was fucked if he knew where he was or what he was doing. He still half expected him to turn up every time he was with a guy, and half the time he was pretty sure that was why he even bothered fucking and not just jerking off to porn in his hotel rooms all around the world. He left the Army pretty quickly, took a few private security gigs, but he knew where the real money was and he was good at it, efficient, unhindered as he was by the usual kinds of morality. It took his mind off of the things he'd lost. Till the thing he'd lost walked in on one of his jobs and bowled him the fuck on over. 

Chris said they'd meet in a week and Brax didn't believe it, sure, but that didn't mean he wasn't disappointed when Chris didn't call, didn't text, didn't find him. He was all set to wait another ten years till their paths crossed again, by chance, on the job, or else maybe they never would till one of them was standing at the other's grave, whatever name was on the headstone. But then he saw him, while he was getting head in an alley just like that first time, twenty years before, and he laughed out loud till the guy pulled back. He shrugged. He tucked himself back in and walked away. 

He tried again a couple of weeks later, outside a club someplace in Texas. He tried again, maybe a month after the last time, outside a bar in New Orleans. But tonight, in the shitty bar of a a shitty backstreet casino out in Vegas, because where the fuck better to lose himself, _that_ was where he made his mind up. Brax decided fuck it, enough was definitely enough; when Chris sat down at the far end of the long bar, trying to seem inconspicuous, Brax made his half-hearted apologies to the guy he'd been flirting with, got up and went straight over there. He took a seat, straddling a stool. 

"My name's Braxton," he said, then took a sip of his beer from the long-necked bottle, watching him out of the corner of his eye. 

"Braxton, I--"

"I know, I know, it's a shitty name," he interrupted. "But I didn't get to choose it myself, so there it is. Braxton." He paused. Chris was looking down at his mostly empty glass. He cleared his throat, frowning, like playing with the stirrer in the remains of his violently orange cocktail would help him understand the situation. 

"This is where you're meant to tell me your name," Braxton said. "Or I can guess. Maybe you're a Jim. Jim?" Chris gave him a confused sideways look. "Okay, you're not a Jim. So, Jackson? That'd be ironic. Jackson and Braxton. Jack. Jackie." Chris glanced again, for half a second, before he looked back down at his drink. "Okay, so you're not a Jackson either. So...Simon. Sebastian. Sean. Scott? You don't look like a Scott." He paused. He drummed his short nails on the side of his beer bottle pseudo-thoughtfully. "Calvin. Caleb. Cameron. Chris? You kinda look like a Chris. Is it Chris?"

Chris looked at him again. He looked away again. He clenched his jaw. He nodded. And honestly, Brax took that as a good sign - his name is _not_ Chris, not even notionally, not since he had to burn his last identity and definitely not by birth, so he figured maybe that was it, he'd play along. 

"I'm pleased to meet you, Chris," Brax said. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Chris shook his head. "No," he said. 

"You don't want another? Seriously, it's on me." 

"No." 

Brax paused, then he leaned a little closer. He put one hand on Chris's shoulder and squeezed over his shirt.

"You want to get out of here?" he asked, his tone dropping lower, not even sure if he was kidding, and Chris looked at him for a moment, not for long but longer than before. He drank what was left of his cocktail in one long gulp and then he nodded again. 

"Yes," he said. 

"Then let's go," Braxton replied. 

The place across the street is a two storey no-tell motel with not-so-great views over the pool no one's meant to use past 8pm but they can't seem to keep clear of empty bottles. It was sold out by the time they got there so it helped Brax has rented a room earlier in the day, before the 2am rush from the row of crappy clubs and bars and pool halls that sprawled at the other side of the street. They trailed up the stairs past a guy passed out drunk and doubled back, past a room with the lights blazing on and the blinds thrown wide open on some girl riding a guy like a freaking bull she was making such a big deal out of it, and when they got to Brax's door, Chris was blushing something fierce. Brax held the door open and Chris went inside in front of him. Brax closed the door. He locked it, then he shoved the back of a chair up underneath the handle just in case, and Chris didn't even look like he thought of asking why. He guessed they both knew they didn't _not_ have enemies. 

He didn't turn on the lights, but he didn't really need to. There was enough light from the street filtering through the closed blinds in slanting horizontal lines that he could see Chris standing there at the foot of the bed, looking away, looking anywhere but over at him. 

"Chris," he said. "So, is that short for Christopher?"

"Christian," Chris said. "It's short for Christian." 

"Do you do this often, Christian?" he asked. "Y'know, pick up guys in bars. Or get picked up by guys, I guess." 

"No," Chris replied. 

"Do you do this at all?"

"No." 

"So I'm your first?"

"Yes." 

"Your first ever?"

"I tried once. I had to leave." 

"It wasn't good?"

"It wasn't right." 

"You mean morally?"

"No." Chris frowned. He wiped his hands on his hips. "I mean physically. He was..."

"He was what, too tall, too short, too big, too small?"

Chris winced. "Too unfamiliar," he said. "I thought he looked the right way, but then he took his clothes off." 

"So maybe I should take mine off and we can see if this thing works." 

Chris nodded tightly. Brax shrugged, and then he pulled off his shirt. 

Chris only sort of watched as he undressed, but he guessed he understood that. Chris watched in glances and out of the corner of his eye sometimes as Chris tossed his shirt onto the chipped wooden dresser and then leaned down to yank the laces of his boots so he could toe them off. Chris sort of watched as he unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down the zipper and shoved them down along with his underwear. He tugged off his socks. He unclasped his wristwatch. And he stood there naked in the slices of low light through the blinds. 

"Do I look right?" Brax asked, holding his arms to his sides, palms up, and Chris's gaze flickered up to him. He turned a circle like that, on the spot, kicking his jeans out of the way so he wouldn't fall down on his ass, jostling his half-hard cock that Chris's gaze was drawn down to. He blushed harder. He nodded. 

"You look right," Chris said, and his mouth twitched into a smile just for a second. 

"Then maybe you want to see whether I _feel_ right, too." 

Chris frowned. 

"Would it make it easier if I look away?" Brax asked, and he did; he turned and rested his hands at the edge of the dresser, leaning forward against it just a little. He could see Chris's shadow moving against the wall, as he pulled off his shirt, as he untied his shoes. He could see him stepping up behind him before he felt his hands skim his hips, up to his waist. He could see the shadow of him as he moved up flush behind him, as he felt his cock against the small of his back before he shifted, pushed it down, parting Brax's cheeks so he could rub the length of it between them, rocking his hips against him slightly. 

"Do I feel right?" Brax asked, his voice sounding thick. 

"Yes," Chris said. Jesus Christ, he sounded just the same. So Braxton leaned over to his bag at the end of the dresser and rummaged through, pulled out a big, unopened tube of lube, and held it back over his shoulder. Chris took it. He heard him uncap it. He felt him pull back. Then he felt two fingers rub between his cheeks, against his hole. He felt Chris pushing lightly with the tips of them. He felt more pressure. He felt them push inside as he stood there, feet apart, leaning down against the dresser. He reached across it, gripped at the back edge of it where it stood proud of the wall, and Chris's fingers pushed in right up to his knuckles, stretching him, opening him. He rocked his hips back and Chris's fingers pushed in deeper, Chris fucked him with them, slowly, like he was figuring out how all this worked, like he'd seen it so many times but didn't quite know how to _do_ it. Braxton cursed under his breath. Chris pulled back. 

"That was not your cue to stop," Braxton said, his forehead resting down against the dresser, then he felt Chris's cock against his cheeks, hot and slick. He felt him push it down between them, felt him rub the tip against his hole and rock against it lightly, again and again. He could feel himself giving, the tight muscle loosening just a little more each time till Chris was pushing into him with every stroke, pushing deeper, fucking him, fucking _into_ him, harder, _harder_ , gripping at his hips as he did it. And Jesus, okay, maybe Brax could've been quiet, maybe he could, but he could hear himself groaning and he could hear Chris almost whining, and he got it, he did, what it must've been like for him, the newness of it, the sensation, fingertips pressed to Brax's hipbones and Brax's asshole pulling tight around him. Maybe he wasn't exactly like he'd been when they'd been kids, but Brax knew he'd never really changed much, either. Not in any way that mattered. 

When Chris came, shoved up inside him, Brax knew that it was on its way by the squeeze of his hands and the struggle to keep his perfect rhythm. And when he pulled out, and pulled back, Brax turned, his erection huge and hard and fucking aching. He reached up to Chris's face with both his hands. Chris looked at him. For once, he didn't look away again, not right away.

"Did I feel right?" he asked, his throat tight. 

Chris nodded. "Yes," he said. 

"Do you want to watch me finish myself off?" Brax asked. 

"Yes," Chris said again. 

Brax finally came just a few minutes later, straddling Chris's hips as he lay on his back on the bed. He came all over Chris's chest, a mess of sweat and come, and Chris watched, wide-eyed. And now, an hour later, lying there side by side in the semi-dark, Brax shifts just far enough to brush the back of Chris's hand with the back of his fingers. 

"If I fall asleep, will you be gone by morning?" he asks. 

"I don't know," Chris replies, but then after a pause he says, "Probably, yes." 

"Don't you dare vanish again, not like last time." 

"Are you you again now?" He sounds confused.

Brax chuckles. He turns onto his side, his head propped up on one hand so he can look at him. 

"I was always me," he says. "Just like you were always you. You're my brother, for fuck's sake, not Christian Wolff. All that roleplay bullshit was just window dressing. Do you understand?" 

Chris nods. Braxton's not sure he really means it, but for now that much will do; he stretches out again, and he lets his eyelids close. Next time, he thinks, he'll call him by his real name, or maybe they'll make each other new ones. 

Brax was happy enough just to let Chris watch, he thinks, before ten years had passed without that. Now it's not enough. It never will be again. 

And if he's gone by morning, he'll just have to find him.


End file.
